Dressed to Kill
by AJarOfDirt
Summary: // "I'm dressed to kill. I'm weightless and well-rehearsed. In my godless opera, my character is canonised." V uses the themes of his favourite films in preparation for his vendetta.


**Author's Notes:** This is my first V for Vendetta fanfiction, so I am quite excited about it, to say the least. I'm relatively proud of this one; I thought it came out splendidly. This story was inspired by the lyrics of a song by a band called Every Time I Die, called _Broadway_. I adore that song and the imagery of it and felt it fitted in with V's anarchy plans perfectly. I included some lines from the song as a part of the dialogue V uses because those lines were just too good not to use.

The movie and its plot that are featured in this fanfiction is entirely fictional. As far as I know, there is no Russian film called Cabaret Massacre in reality.

This may be my first V for Vendetta fic, but do criticise if necessary :) It's like a symphony in my ears if I get criticism, though please make it constructive ;)

V for Vendetta belongs to Alan Moore and thank you to Every Time I Die for providing inspiration and for the title of this story (also taken from _Broadway_).

* * *

_Zing! Clang! Crash!_

The silver blade whipped around effortlessly as its wielder dodged move after move from his opponent. The shiny number in his hand clashed with the gun of the armed officer, stabbing and slicing at the latter in attempt to defeat him. The atmosphere was intense and strict; the men were perfectly poised for battle. Neither one of them were giving up that easily.

"Come on, come on! Is that all you've got, my friend?" The attacker taunted, whirling around, causing his cloak to create obscure patterns in the air. The mask he wore that blocked out his features was reminiscent of something right out of a masquerade ball with harlequin cheeks, an exaggerated goatee and a smile, a be-guiling and be-deviling smile. "Or are you too scared to fire that gun of yours?"

The policeman before him did not reply, nor did he move. V made a single, swift movement, stabbing the man right through the heart.

Panting from exertion, V retrieved his sword from the law enforcer's chest, staring down at the blank, smiling expression of the dummy he had just managed to 'murder'. He re-sheathed his sword and sighed, staring around his home, the Shadow Gallery, full of books and artefacts that he had managed to steal from various reputable places such as the Lourve and Leslie Alcock's archaeological collection. The makeshift policeman, in fact, had been a stolen dummy from a life-sized-caricature-construction shop just a little while out of London.

But nobody knew the real whereabouts of V's sanctuary. Nobody knew how many miles it spanned until it reached the closed-off section of the London Underground. Only he knew; and he would not tell a soul. The Shadow Gallery was his life's work, built for one purpose – to train him until the time was right to begin his assault on totalitarian London.

V picked the dummy up from the floor and positioned it back into its glass partitioned stand, closing the reflective surface over it once it was in place. Turning around, he turned the television on and switched the channel from the news to his favourite movie station. V was a big fan of old movies with sad endings, as well as movies with mass murders and ballroom dancing. Whatever was on his movie station, _Films of the 19__th__ Century_, he enjoyed as it usually showed films about old mystery murders and assassinations. He had odd tastes, but it suited him just fine.

"Ah,_The Cabaret Massacre_, a truly excellent motion picture indeed!" he exclaimed with glee as the familiar picture came into view on the screen before him, looking over at what was once his opponent for the night. "I never get tired of this movie, beautiful artistry! It is one of my favourite films, right after _The Count of Monte Cristo_."

V's words obviously fell on deaf ears, but he continued rattling off about the actors, filmmakers and visuals of the movie as though with a partner. The makeshift policeman in the corner made no noise as V laughed maniacally to himself at the sheer excitement. He was clearly having the time of his life.

He was silent as he watched the film for the following hour though, savouring every moment of the deliciously twisted, uncommonly delicate and enticingly intricate weaves and folds of _The Cabaret Massacre_. It was a Russian film and the storyline was as such that a mass killing occurred at a ballroom event held by the Tsar of the time. It was a real bloody mess – one of the most serious murders of Russia, as the film stated – and V adored such artistic quality. It put ideas in his head, but who was he to complain? When he was in desperate need of creative ways to…teach the government a thing or two about running a country, he would seek films like these. They always gave him a certain delight and that touch of violence he craved for.

The two-hour film ended soon enough and V turned the television off. Standing up, he walked over to his dressing table where his classic, self-made knives were located. They were designed specially for himself, by himself, after many different knives were researched and tested. These daggers were made for V's hands and V's alone.

Seating himself at the vanity, he picked the blades up and began to play with them, twirling them between his fingers and smiling shrewdly to himself. His mind was in a different place already, imagining exactly what could happen should he start something.

"A vendetta," he muttered. "_My_ vendetta."

He had been planning one for ages. Killing over the past years as practice for what he had arranged for the fifth of November, 1997, was all partially due to satisfying his bloodlust, but his ultimate revenge was only just about to begin.

"Vengeance is mine," V breathed out slowly, taking in the smell of his home. He began speaking to himself in a tone not unlike one of a possessive husband's. "It will be beautiful. _I'm dressed to kill. I'm weightless and well-rehearsed. In my godless opera, my character is canonised._"

Standing abruptly, V made his way over to his jukebox, flipping on an amphitheatre number. He made his way over to a case with a second dummy within, this time, a makeshift ballroom dancer. Retrieving her from her stand, he stood in the middle of the room with her, holding her upright and waiting for the starting time of the dance.

"Ah, yes, Lucy, seduce my senses," V murmured as he wheeled the dummy around the room, a slight ecstasy in his voice. "_Strike up the band. It's two-hundred-and-forty-five beats for a measure or five beats per six steps on alternating feet. The show must go on. Never mind the teeth and fingernails, the show must go on. I don't feel at all like I thought I would, but I could probably go on like this forever.__Tonight we dance, for tomorrow, they release the dogs_."


End file.
